


Shot Through The Heart

by futuresoon



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Kurusu Akira, Dirty Talk, Dirty Talk But It's About Murder, Dream Sex, Gunplay, M/M, Rough Sex, Top Akechi Goro, oops there's feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24474856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futuresoon/pseuds/futuresoon
Summary: Akira's dreams have been remarkably lucid, of late.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 18
Kudos: 452





	Shot Through The Heart

Akira’s dreams have been remarkably lucid, of late.

If it’s a trickster thing, or a Maruki thing, or the lingering effects of Mementos being fused with reality--he doesn’t know. But for the past few weeks, his dreams have been so sharp and clear he’d almost think he was awake, if he didn’t somehow know he wasn’t. The strange logic of dreams still applies; things still shift, things still seem to make sense even when in reality they’d be nonsensical, but he’s aware of it all, he _knows_ the things that seem to make sense really don’t. 

Sometimes this makes him a passive observer, watching whatever’s happening with fascination, uninterested in interfering in whatever his subconscious has come up with. Everyone riding a roller coaster that never ends. Haru hosting a cooking show where every ingredient is her vegetables, much larger and shinier than they are in real life. Morgana turning into a dozen different animals before settling on a giraffe. Sometimes he’s active in the absurdity, applying Ann’s makeup for her first day as a stage magician, setting up Yusuke’s gallery of model trains, giving Futaba a pep talk before her first speech as president of the internet.

Sometimes it’s…stranger, more disconnected from reality, and his fascination turns to guilt that rises more and more as events unfold and for the life of him he can’t tell whether or not he wants to wake up.

Akira doesn’t like to think about those.

Today was a long day, traversing the new Mementos for those few requests, some narrow victories against Shadows he’s used to being weak and afraid of him. When they got back, he collapsed into bed, ready to sink into nothingness, hoping that if his subconscious did decide to rear its head, it’d pick up something simple and calming.

His vision fades from a dark attic to the red-and-black labyrinth of Mementos, and he thinks dully, _no such luck._

He’s alone, at least. He looks around, considers staying in one spot and waiting for whatever. But maybe he’s supposed to go wandering, to find whatever’s waiting for him instead? Or maybe he’s supposed to wander and find nothing, and it’s all some metaphor for not knowing what he’ll do after the school year ends. He has no idea.

Moving gives him something to do, if nothing else. He goes walking down the empty tunnels, listening to the ever-present murmur of indiscernible voices. He wonders, vaguely, if the Reaper is going to show up.

After some amount of time, Akira finally feels some sort of presence behind him. He turns around, hands in his pockets. It’s not a Shadow; a familiar, blue-and-black figure stands there, arms crossed, eyes narrowed behind his mask.

Ah. Definitely one of the weird ones, then.

“Come to see me, all by yourself?” Akechi says, his voice cold. “You should know better than that.”

Akira’s not sure what part he’s supposed to play, so he just shrugs. “Got bored,” he says.

Akechi lets out a soft laugh, puts a hand on his hip. _“Bored,”_ he says. “Of what, exactly? Playing the leader? Pretending you’re completely confident you made the right call? Endless team bonding activities? You’ve so many things to do, Joker, I can hardly imagine you getting _bored.”_

“Yeah, well.” Akira shrugs again. “What’s life without some bad decisions?”

Akechi takes a step closer. The sound echoes in the empty, cavernous space. “Even now, you make time for me,” he says softly. “Knowing everything about me, and seeing who I really am, you still invite me out for meaningless things and idle conversation. You fight by my side without question. I could put a sword through your back in an instant and you don’t seem to care at all.”

“You wouldn’t, though,” Akira says. He’s put a lot of thought into it. Maybe more than he should have. “You’d get nothing out of it. You can’t defeat Maruki on your own, and I already know you’re not strong enough to beat all of us, either. You killing me wouldn’t have a point.”

Akechi’s suddenly a lot closer than he was. A _lot_ closer. One spiked finger traces underneath Akira’s jaw. “Besides how good it would feel to have my sword at your throat,” he whispers. 

Akira carefully does not swallow. “Besides that,” he says.

Akechi’s claw slides down to Akira’s jugular, presses the sharp tip of the gauntlet just hard enough that it barely breaks the skin. “I thought about it over and over,” he breathes. “All the ways I could kill you. A bullet in the lungs, so it would take longer. Carve you open from sternum to stomach, so I could see inside all of you and know you completely. Strangle you with my bare hands, so I could feel your throat flutter beneath my fingers as you choked out your final breath.”

Akira reminds himself that this isn’t the real Akechi, and the real one probably didn’t think about that. Then he remembers that this is a version of Akechi his subconscious thought he’d enjoy interacting with, which is…worse, really.

He’s thought about asking the real Akechi what it was like when he killed him. He’s just not sure how to bring it up, or what kind of answer he’s expecting, or what kind of answer he’s hoping for.

“It’s a shame the bruises faded,” Akechi whispers, as close to Akira’s ear as he can get with the mask still on. “You looked so beautiful with them.”

Akira’s breath catches in his throat. _Nothing that happens here matters,_ he reminds himself. _None of this is real._

_Nobody will ever know._

All of Akechi’s right hand is at Akira’s throat now. More pinpricks as the spiked fingers dig into his skin, tilt his chin up just a little. Akechi’s thumb brushes across Akira’s lower lip, catching slightly at the edge of it. Pressing down, just enough to make a drop of blood well up.

Dream logic: Akechi’s mask is still on, but somehow Akechi’s kissing him anyway.

Akira finds himself shoved back against the wall of the tunnel, Akechi devouring his mouth, one spiked hand clenched in his hair and the other wrapped around his neck, palm pressing into his jugular. Every gasp of breath he manages is swallowed by Akechi’s mouth laying claim to his. Akechi bites down on his lower lip, _hard,_ and Akira tastes his own blood in the half-second before Akechi laps it up.

Akira’s hands scrabble at Akechi’s back. There’s no point in trying to push away; there’s no one here to try to fool. Just a dream, disconnected from the world; no one knows, no one cares, no one can see him moaning for this, how flushed he’s getting just from this. Certainly no one can hear his thought that he wishes Akechi’s hand on his throat would squeeze harder.

He’s already painfully hard, his erection throbbing while Akechi grinds against him, rolling his hips into Akira’s in a way that makes Akira’s few breaths go ragged and uneven. Akechi’s hand slips off his throat and travels down to his ass, claws digging in while Akechi growls into his mouth.

“Disgusting,” Akechi hisses. “Reacting like this to your murderer. How far down does your masochism go? How much will it take before you finally regain your senses?”

In a dream, you can do anything. Things you shouldn’t, things you can’t. Things you could never admit to wanting.

“How terrible do your desires get,” Akechi breathes, and takes a step back, shoves Akira to his knees, pulls out his gun.

Not the sci-fi constructions he has in the Metaverse. This one looks more like Akira’s: gray, shining dully under the red lights, almost real. More than almost real. Akira doesn’t know what gun Akechi killed him with, but he thinks it probably looked a lot like this.

Akechi presses it against Akira’s parted lips.

Akira closes his eyes and takes the barrel into his mouth.

Cold, hard metal. It clacks against his teeth, feels heavy on his tongue. There’s no taste, but a faint smell of cordite lingers. It was used recently. He knows where.

He laves it with his tongue, explores the heavy shape of it, feels his pulse ratchet higher. One of Akechi’s claws strokes his cheek.

“How revolting,” Akechi murmurs. “You’d debase yourself this much? No wonder you rejected Maruki’s reality; he could never have granted _your_ greatest desires.”

Akira’s cock strains against the fabric of his outfit. In a dream, he doesn’t have to justify any of this. He leans forward, takes in more of the barrel. It draws closer to the back of his mouth.

Akechi’s gauntlet cradles his chin. “Or maybe this is all just a metaphor, but it’s a really fucking weird one if it is,” he whispers.

Which doesn’t quite fit the mood--but then Akechi jams the gun far back into Akira’s mouth, almost into his throat, and Akira gags so hard he can’t concentrate. He has to push a hand down hard against his groin to prevent himself from coming then and there. Stars burst in his eyes; a trail of saliva trickles down from the corner of his mouth.

He hears a small _click._

Both of them go silent. 

After a few seconds, Akira slowly opens his eyes. Right in front of his face, he can see one of Akechi’s claws pressed against the trigger.

Akechi’s face is completely impassive. “Just testing,” he says.

Akechi’s free hand peels off Akira’s mask, lets it fall onto the packed dirt. Returns to his cheek. “It’s a good look on you,” he says lowly. “Fear. Your eyes widen and your breath stills. Your lips part, just a little. Much prettier than any deer in headlights. I wonder if I’m the only person who’s gotten close enough to see the excitement underneath.”

Akira shivers. His jaw aches from being forced open for too long. He can barely breathe with the gun so far down his throat, and in the real world he’d probably be choking for air, but here, he can let this go as far as his subconscious wants. Not that he can really blame this on his subconscious anymore. He’s in control of his actions; he could stop if he wanted. He could push away, bring out his own weapons, turn this into a different sort of dream.

He doesn’t.

“God, look at you,” Akechi murmurs. He caresses Akira’s lower lip again, streaks the saliva across it. “You’re obscene. If you could talk right now you’d be begging for it, wouldn’t you?”

Akira’s not a talkative person by nature, but--maybe. He’s never had the opportunity.

Akechi’s silent for a few seconds, and then a few seconds more. Finally, he says, conversationally, “I’m trying to decide what to fuck you with.”

Akira involuntarily lets out a thin whine beneath the gun. Akechi’s smile curves like a knife.

“Right,” he says. “No need to choose.”

He pulls out the gun, coated in Akira’s saliva, and pulls Akira up by the hair, twisting him around and pushing him face-first into the wall. It happens so quickly Akira barely has the time to gasp out a breath. The wall is cold and unclean; he can feel flecks of dirt on his skin.

Dream logic shifts again. He’s wearing his Metaverse clothes, but he’s never taken those off before, never needed to. He’s not entirely sure how to. But he feels exposed now, lower body on display even though neither of them did anything. He can’t twist his head far back enough to see.

One of Akechi’s hands digs its claws into his shoulder. “Always so quiet,” Akechi whispers into his ear. “Let’s see if that lasts.”

Akira shudders, flinches, feels cold, wet metal between his legs. It presses at his entrance, barely pushes inside. Then thrusts hard, and he cries out, the intrusion a shock of pain that sends sparks through his whole body. There’s no preparation at all. He shakes, keens, digs his fingers into the unyielding wall, as it thrusts in and out, forces him open. The saliva isn’t nearly enough to keep it slick.

His eyes squeeze shut. He hears Akechi chuckle in his ear. Distantly, he’s amazed he hasn’t already come.

The gun pumping in and out of him is a rough rhythm of sharp, loud pain. He thinks he might be saying something, or trying to, but the words get mixed up in his throat and come out as only moans, gasping and panting at the pain, the thrill of being pinned, the way the barrel occasionally shoves against something inside him that sends a wave of ecstasy along with the hurt. 

Teeth sink into the side of his neck, hard. Akira keens sharply, feels it go deep enough to break the skin, blood welling up and being licked away. 

Suddenly, the gun pulls out. Akira almost sags, but the claws in his shoulder keep him upright. It’s too abrupt, too unexpected. The sharp pain is replaced with a throbbing ache. 

“I did say I wasn’t choosing,” Akechi breathes.

Something else lines up at Akira’s entrance, warmer and blunter. He barely inhales before Akechi’s cock shoves into him, as roughly and forcefully as the gun, bringing back the spikes of pain but amplified, now, with the greater heat, with the sensation of Akechi’s claws holding his hips in place. Akira’s cock scrapes against the wall with every thrust, his whole body burns. 

He’s almost sobbing now, the mix of pain and ecstasy overloading his senses and mind. Akechi thrusts against that spot more frequently, like he’s zeroed in on it. Akira is distantly aware that he might actually be begging now.

“Beautiful,” Akechi whispers, his own voice ragged now, rough around the edges. “I’m the only one who can see you like this, Joker. I’m the only one who _knows_ you.”

Akira’s too far gone for a full sentence, but he manages to gasp out, “Yes, _yes,”_ and somehow he can hear Akechi’s breath catch at that. 

It might go on forever, in the shifting time of dreams. But eventually one of Akechi’s hands snakes around to roughly grab Akira’s cock, and Akira shudders even harder and after only a few pulls comes harder than he ever has in reality, splattering the wall with white. 

After a few more harsh thrusts, Akechi groans and Akira feels heat splatter inside him. Akechi’s grip on his hips lessens, and Akira can’t stand up at all anymore; he collapses on the ground, and then somehow Akechi’s hands are steadying him, and he leans back and finds himself resting against Akechi’s chest. His hips are bracketed by Akechi’s legs. Both of them seem fully clothed now. Dreams.

He breathes in and out, too exhausted to speak. After a while, Akechi’s somehow bare fingers start to comb through his hair. It’s weirdly gentle. Intimate. Akira isn’t sure how to interpret it.

He manages to twist his head around enough to see some of Akechi’s face. The mask is gone. He looks…sad, somehow. Quiet. 

Eventually, Akechi says, softly, tiredly, “Whatever’s doing this, it’s very unkind of you.”

Akira genuinely has no idea how to respond to that. He sits in stunned silence while Akechi kisses the crown of his head.

“But I suppose if you insist, a few more moments is fine,” Akechi whispers, and closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the side of Akira’s head, wraps his arms around Akira’s shoulders.

Akira kind of wants to let it continue, but--“Hold on,” he says, confusion coloring his voice. “That isn’t how this usually goes.”

Akechi’s breath against his neck goes still.

Akira twists around more, Akechi’s arms loosening around him. “It usually ends there, so, uh,” he says awkwardly. “I mean, I’m not complaining, it’s just…different?”

They stare at each other for a long, silent moment.

Both their eyes widen. Akechi lets go and scrambles back, leaving Akira off-balance for a second before he rights himself. They both start, “I,” and then stop, and then stare--

And then the world blinks away and Akira wakes up in his bed.

He has enough self-control to lever himself out of it without waking Morgana, and runs down the stairs as quietly as he can, rushing into the restroom and locking the door behind him. He pulls down his pants and collapses on the toilet seat, one hand on his cock, breathless, flushed, keeps one hand over the head and barely manages a few strokes before coming with a bitten-back whine. 

For a moment, he sits there, panting. Avoids looking at the mirror. He’s dripping with sweat, and his hand is sticky.

He takes a deep breath. Pulls off some toilet paper, wipes down his hand, drops the incriminating evidence down the toilet. Flushes it. Pulls up his pants. Washes both of his hands in the little sink, and then stares at the mirror, trying to put his thoughts together.

Weird Metaverse stuff, probably. Something to do with two tricksters. Excessive cognition spilling over blah blah blah.

He splashes some water on his face, tries to wipe off some of the sweat with a towel that he’s going to have to take to the laundromat tomorrow.

Okay.

He goes back upstairs.

Akira carefully picks up his phone, avoiding Morgana, and turns off the sound. He’s not sure what to say. He never was any good at starting conversations.

While his fingers hover over it, a message appears and saves him the trouble.

 **Akechi:** We aren’t going to talk about this.  
**Akira:** Absolutely

Waits. Considers. Thinks a little about dreams letting you do things you can’t admit you want in reality.

 **Akira:** For the record I did mean it when I said I wasn’t complaining  
**Akira:** So you could come over tomorrow for whatever if you want  
**Akira:** Like just to hang out? Watch a movie or something  
**Akira:** Just if you’re not busy

Waits. Waits some more.

 **Akechi:** I’ll think about it.

Akira puts his phone down, exhales, inhales. Sits down on the bed a little heavier than he intended; Morgana twitches awake and looks at him with bleary eyes.

“Everything all right?” Morgana asks sleepily.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Akira replies, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just had a weird dream, that’s all.”

Morgana regards him with a dispassionate air. “You’re smiling,” he says.

He is? Oh, he is. “Go back to sleep, Mona,” he says.

Morgana yawns, mumbles something indiscernible, and goes back to sleep.

Akira touches his mouth. Then he settles back into bed, closes his eyes. Tries to sleep too.

Remembers how gentle Akechi’s fingers were in his hair.

Try as he might, he can’t sleep at all.

**Author's Note:**

> akechi's filthiest fantasy contains roughly 40% cuddling by volume
> 
> You can find me at [Tumblr](http://www.futuresoon.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/futuresoonest).


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